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Compania Andres MarinFebruary 2006 London, Sadler's Wells © Jeffery Taylor Former dancer, Critic and an Arts feature writer for the |
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Andres Marin, the Iron Man of Spanish Dance, blasted into London last week, for one night only. With his unsmiling integrity and challenging attitude, Marin clearly defines dance as a masculine illumination of life’s enigmas. Fun and games? Forget it, only his profound, and often surprising, understanding of rhythm and movement, expressed through a dazzling technique, prompts a smile of admiration or a murmured “ole” from the audience. Dressed in unvarying black with spindly beard and bendy physique, his publicity calls him cutting edge and avant garde, but far from embracing the pop concert values that so entrance much of today’s Spanish dance, Marin goes so far back to basics his impact is primeval.
Not for him the rippling arms of an Asian goddess, nor the farmyard strut of the conventional flamenco male. Lit in grim white pools of light, skin greasy with sweat with nothing androgynous and everything strictly subjective, his performance comes from the gut, not the rehearsal room mirror. He shares the bill with three women but joins them only in the finale. Nothing is allowed to come between us and him and his apparent solutions to eternal mysteries. By the curtain’s fall I felt I, too, had all the answers. As for the questions...
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